


Born in Blood, Both of Us

by BabyDollDevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dexter, Incest, M/M, Serial Killer Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyDollDevil/pseuds/BabyDollDevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a quiet blood spatter analyst who just happens to be a serial killer and Sam is a new detective who wants to prove himself by solving a big case. Dean wants his brother to succeed, but it’s him that Sam is hunting. Sam knows that Dean is keeping a secret from him, but the secrets run deeper than either one of them can imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Tonight's the night. And it's going to happen again and again. It has to happen._

Nice night. The city looks artificial under a carbon colored sky. Fantastical in a way that dims then disappears in the light of the sun. Miami is a modern-day fairy tale town. Damsels on street corners and knights in beat-up Buicks. Princesses in pink hot pants and dragons in disguise. The wicked and the wise. The distressed and the defenders. But no one will be rescued tonight. A monster will get the happy ending.

Dean risks a glance at the sky, trusting his dark companion to steady the wheel, keep them safe, draw them closer to their destination. Carbon black is interrupted by the hunter's light; the full moon, beautiful, flickering and fading in and out between late-lit buildings, blooming red against the midnight sky. Blood Moon. Hunter's Moon. Dean sees this as an omen. Dean, who is blood starved and vampire-dazed. Hungry. Always hungry.

And there's one way to satiate that starvation. Brent Donovan. He's the one. Male. Caucasian. Thirty-Two. Possesses a fondness for red-haired women, which whom he fucks then kills. He's the one who is going to pacify Dean's Dark Passenger tonight. And to be a predator himself, he is remarkably unaware of the car that has been following him for weeks.

The bar is crowded. It's Friday in Miami and more than just monsters are lingering in the darkness. Things less lethal than Dean or Brent Donovan. Oblivious, all of them, to the dangers lurking around them. But tonight, they're safe. The red-haired woman three seats down from Donovan, she's safe too. 

With each step Dean takes, the need grows stronger until it is a ravenous hole at the center of him, filling him up with emptiness until he can feel the phantom throb of it in his fingers, in his toes. Like sitting still for too long while waiting for something to happen, letting the need coil and creep like a predacious thing. Mouth wet, heart racing, Dean acts as though there is not a secret creature lingering inside of him, coaxing, convincing, consuming. 

Dean takes a stool at the bar and orders a beer, lets the chill of the bottle sneak into his fingertips. He wraps his lips around the rim the way he knows draws attention, and to his left, Donovan offers to buy him his next drink. Dean accepts. It's the plan after all, even though it's coming together quicker than he imagined it would. _You're making it too easy, Mr. Donovan. The hunt is half the fun._

Dean doesn't drink anymore after the first two. After Donovan's third, he starts to look dead-eyed and hollow, his demon drunk on booze and that's not the way this is supposed to go. Dean needs him aware. Needs him to know why. Dean needs Donovan's darkness to come out and play with his own. 

Fifteen minutes south of the bar is Carrie Miller's house, a small, bright blue square at the end of a cul-de-sac. Carrie was a third grade school teacher, pretty, with brown eyes and red hair. Two months ago she was murdered by Brent Donovan, her body disposed of in a dumpster like nothing more than garbage. She wasn't the first. And she wouldn't have been the last. Dean thinks back to the dear dumb damsel in the bar tonight. She would have left with Donovan had he wanted her to.

Donovan's unnaturally pale for Miami. The moonlight doesn't tan and, like the monster he is, it seems as though he only comes out at night. He has light hair and light eyes, he's shorter than Dean, and smaller. He has a delicate, unassuming quality about him that both women and men appear to notice and appreciate. Dean sees it, understands it, but he prefers his partners bigger, darker, different. Regardless, Donovan has no lack of bedmates and no trouble bewitching bar hoppers back to his own house.

Which is why he doesn't know that he's currently standing in the home of victim number six. No, not victim number six, Carrie Miller. And Donovan will remember soon enough. There's a deliberate darkness inside the house; Carrie's sensible decor is green and grey, but still feminine enough to raise suspicion. Her bedroom is the same, green and grey with a big bed at the center. Comfortable and appealing to two people who are only looking for a horizontal space. 

The next room, however, is Dean's own creation. Bright and white and pure. Scrubbed clean and perfect. Thick sheets of plastic covering every wall, the ceiling, the floor. A table sits in the middle and pictures hang on one wall of sheeting. Six women who could be sisters - red hair, brown eyes, pretty, young, and dead.

Dean leads him back to lay on the bed. Donovan fucks his victims before he kills them, so Dean is going to do the same. He's sensible enough when it comes to sex; he has a healthy enough drive, but doesn't participate in the act too often. He has tried involving himself in relationships, even love in his most desperate of moments. But there is something broken in him, missing maybe, and sooner or later the act will begin to be too much and the loneliness that his performance brings becomes unbearable. He feels incapable of love mostly, and he knows how unlovable he is himself.

But Donovan isn’t looking for love. And if Dean’s darkness wants to take a peek from behind his eyes, then let it. Donovan's body is slender with skin like marble. Dean wishes he could see his sins etched in it like blemishes, but there's nothing. No cracks to show the darkness he has hidden inside. What a deceptive monster. 

There's a needle in the bedside drawer and when it's over, there's a prick, then a plunge, and Dean is already dressed by the time Donovan wakes up. Dean wastes no time. He tells him to talk about Carrie Miller. About Theresa Chapel. April Stevens. Mary Burke. Savannah. Leslie. 

Everything he tells Dean, he already knows. The story is boring and it’s always the same. _I just couldn’t help myself._

Dean's blade dissappears into Donovan's heart, and when he pulls back, the man's blood streams onto the plastic sheeting, dark and dense. It pools beside and beneath his body, lapping at his skin in sanguine waves. Against the backdrop of the white washed room, it looks like art. 

Dean stands mesmerized for just a moment, knife still in his clutch, watching as the life flows out of the deceased Donovan. Dean gets this way sometimes. When his Dark Passenger has gone too long without and his snarling shadow self starts clawing at him from the inside; when he finally gets the fix that he needs, the world goes quiet. He wonders if he feels less barren when he empties out someone else.

And every time he must remind himself he can't touch.

Blood. Thick, slick, sticky blood.

Sacrosanct. Intangible.

\---

The sky is dawn-dim when Dean finally makes it home. He's never needed much sleep, but he would appreciate a few hours before he has to get up and endure the day. A good hunt will leave him lazy limbed and relaxed, his Dark Passenger purring in content, and this morning he feels it--the slow sinking satisfaction that leads to a dreamless sleep. The thirst for blood quenched for now.

His apartment is a few sluggish steps away; his bed, just beyond that. A key in the bottom lock, then the top --

"Well look who the fuck decided to show up!"

Dean holds back a groan while he watches his two hours of sleep wave goodbye. "Good morning to you, too, Sam," he says, pressing the pads of his fingers against his closed eyelids. "Could you not find a glass?"

Sam shrugs as he pulls the orange juice from his lips, hand wrapped tightly around the neck of the bottle. "Didn't know I needed one," he replies with a smile as he continues to eat his cereal. The empty bottle is abandoned on the counter behind him, the lid lost somewhere else, and Dean knows that Sam won't remember to throw either away.

Dean wants to be annoyed, he has every right to be, he reminds himself--but he isn't. He can't be, not with Sam. Dean is alone in the world, all alone, but for Sam. And Sam's the only person who loves him. It's not self-pity that makes him think this, but rather, self-awareness. Dead dad. Long-dead mom. And Dean can only pretend so much, can only hold a relationship until someone gets a glimpse of what's inside of him. But Sam has never left. And Sam has never turned him away. Whether he recognizes Dean's darkness or not, he still loves him. Unconditionally.

"And where the hell have you been?" Sam asks, hip leaning against the kitchen counter and one hand dwarfing the cereal bowl, the other holding a spoon, constantly full and at his lips, even with a mouth full of the stuff. He's always had this habit of holding the spoon "prison-style" as their dad used to call it, but Dean can't help but think that he just looks like an overgrown toddler.

Dean starts moving again at that thought, his high chased away. If Sam can't sober him, thinking of his dad always could. He places his keys in the bowl beside the door, and then walks to the breakfast bar separating him from Sam. "That's need-to-know, little brother," he responds. "The real question is, why are you here?"

Sam sits his half full bowl in the sink. "I came to use your gym, but I need your key card," he says. Dean nearly ignores him in favor of telling him to rinse out the bowl. "And since you weren't here, then no gym."

"What's the matter with your gym?" Dean asks.

Sam smirks, licks the corner of his mouth with his tongue before he begins. "I had this thing with a trainer there," he explains to Dean. "It's complicated."

Dean's insides suddenly twist in an ugly way; his placated passenger awakening and writhing at the thought of a new target. But Dean soothes the storm and calms himself before he speaks. "Keep it up, Sammy,” he replies, aiming for casual. “Soon you won't be able to go anywhere in Dade County."

"Haha, fuck you," Sam retorts, rounding the breakfast bar to get to his brother's side of it. Dean leans back, skeptical, as Sam moves forward and presses his nose against Dean's collar. Before Dean can smack him away, he pulls back and snorts in amusement. "Seems like someone already did. You smell like spunk."

Dean pulls the neck of his shirt up over his nose and takes a whiff. "Like what?" he asks, voice muffled by the fabric.

"Spunk!" Sam replies. "Jizz, come, sperm."

Dean groans. "I'm going to bed."

He hears Sam's phone ring as he makes his way down the hall. "Don't count on it," Sam yells to him before answering, and from his bedroom, Dean can hear a firm _Sam Winchester_ that sounds like another person entirely.

Dean sighs and figures that he can put on something clean at least. He smells his shirt again and, yeah... spunk. He wrinkles his nose and throws the shirt in the trash can in the corner. Maybe he’ll burn it later.

"Grab your purse, dear," Sam calls from the living room. "Our presence has been requested."

Another day, another murder. The nocturnal need inside of Dean is saying sleep for a while, but Sam calls his name from the living room, and that's another temptation that Dean can't resist.

"You go," he tells Sam. "I'll be right behind you."

He listens as Sam leaves, closing the door but not locking it, of course. Sam's always moving too fast for his own good, always somewhere to be, something to do. He's never stayed in the same place longer than he's needed to, never been with the same person for longer than it took to satisfy his curiosity. He is smart and handsome and charming with no effort at all. He's one of those people who could have anything he wanted without ever trying too hard. Something he got from their dad. Dean may be a spitting image of their old man, but Sam inherited everything else. And Dean loves him, more than anything.

And, even with Dean's history, could that be his greatest sin? That he loves his brother too much? Too much in the wrongs ways and not enough in the ways that Sam needs? Because Sam lost a father, same as Dean. He lost a mother, too, even though he doesn't remember her. Despite his colleagues, his conquests, Sam has always been as alone as Dean. 

Maybe Sam’s light is just as blinding as the darkness inside of Dean, and both are just too unfamiliar for them to keep anyone close. So they turn to each other in their solitude; fingers reaching out in the obscurity. If Dean could just hold on. If he could just protect Sam. But how can he do that when the biggest threat is himself?

When the desire creeps up Dean’s spine like a creature come to consume him; when the thing inside of him hungers for something more than blood, that’s when he remembers that the places that aren't empty inside of him are broken. 

And every time he must remind himself he can't touch. 

Sam. Flesh of his flesh. Body like blood.

Sacrosanct. Intangible.


	2. Chapter 2

John's code is the closest thing that Dean has to religion. It’s the framework for survival. His way of life. Created to calm his Dark Passenger; to keep it from consuming him. And Dean follows the code like scripture.

John tried his best. Surviving a lonely childhood, a stinking war, only to get married and have his wife taken by a demon in disguise. Then watching that change Dean, turn him into something even he couldn't prepare for. But he kept going. And in the end, he did a hell of a lot more good than he did bad. The one thing you could say about John was that loved his boys more than anything. That was his truth. 

This is Dean's truth: Sam was always the path to his salvation. Dean loved his dad, but he loved his brother even more. Never caring about right or wrong until Dad said to keep what's inside secret and safe because it will hurt you. More than that, it will hurt Sammy. And since then all that has mattered was keeping Sam safe, unseeing, shielded behind a smoke screen with Dean on the other side. 

John's code was to keep Dean safe from the world, but Dean's code was to keep Sam safe from him.

\---

"Sam," Dean says as he strolls over, sidling up beside his brother. "Is this the same guy?"

"Hey," Sam replies before answering, knocking his elbow into Dean's. "Lieutenant Asshole keeps saying that officially there's no connection." He scoffs and cuts his eyes toward said asshole. "A moron can see these kills are connected."

Dean sighs. "People see what they want to see," he says, looking at Sam as Sam stares at the crime scene. "They ignore what they don't. Plus, it would make for an awful lot of paperwork."

Dean can make out Sam’s scowl even with his eyes hiding behind aviators. “Come on, Dean. Same C.O.D. Same M.O. The vic was killed somewhere else, chopped into pieces, put into bags, then moved to this location.”

Dean nods in agreement. "So it seems like we have a serial killer on our hands."

"Seems like it," Sam says and Dean follows his gaze as he looks at the bystanders surrounding the barricade. "I just can't get a pattern on how he chooses his victims. They have nothing in common. The last vic was visiting from New Hampshire, for shit's sake."

Dean can see the muscles clench in his brother's jaw, the purse of his lips that means that he’s trying to hold himself back. He shakes his head and inhales deep. "God, I want to catch this guy," he practically growls between his teeth.

That's always it with Sam; he's too passionate, too feeling. But he puts up a front so the world won't see how vulnerable he is. Dean, on the other hand, puts up a front so the world won't see how vulnerable he's not. That's not to say that Dean doesn't experience emotions. His Dark Passenger lets him feel well enough. Calm. Composure. Desire. And Sam... Sam makes him feel things that nothing else ever has.

Maybe the well-worn mask hides Dean from both sides. It protects him from the world that would think him a monster. And it guards him from the darkness living inside him that would consider him a too human threat. Dean is neither man nor beast and not knowing which to trust, he depends on the mask to keep him safe.

"You can't get so emotionally invested," he tells Sam.

"Easy for you to say," Sam responds, and in moments like this, Dean wishes the mask could slip, just a little, just for Sam's sake. Dean doesn't know if he's faking hurt or if this is something he really feels. And if Sam can see the internal struggle within Dean, he chooses to ignore it. Dean is thankful for that.

"But seriously," Sam says, "a goddamn bowling alley?” He huffs out a laugh. His voice is softer when he continues. “Dad used to take us here all the time, remember? Fuck, now all I'm going to think of is a fuckin' dead body here. That mother fucker."

Sam crosses his arms, and he's not a cop anymore, but the petulant little brother that Dean grew up with. Snot-nosed, too smart, too stubborn spoiled brat. Willful, whiny pain in the ass. Scared now, like always, of the horror of helplessness. And big brother Dean has an obligation to Sam. It's always been his job to chase the monsters away.

"I wonder if they still have the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet," Dean thinks out loud. "They would get so mad when they saw the three of us coming."

Sam lets a smile slip, his anger forgotten for now. Dean wants to raise his fist in victory. “We knew how to shut down a buffet!” Sam laughed.

To their right, lab techs are going through the dumpster, the stink of it permeating through the heat of the air. October in Miami and still hot as Hell. The stench of sweat is bad enough, so Dean can only imagine the rotten pizza and used socks they’re pulling from garbage bags. They may find molding arcade tickets, but they won’t find much else. This killer is good. Neat, meticulous. There won’t be anything there that he doesn’t want them to find. And what he does want them to see is tied up in plastic.

Sam and Dean started walking towards the dumpster where Ash Lindberg was sitting on an overturned milk carton sorting through a pile of waste."Top 'o the morning, gentlemen," he says without looking up. "What brings you here, Dean? Come to relieve me of my duties?" 

"Yeah," Dean scoffs. "It would be my pleasure to wade waist deep in a sea of trash. But you're so much better at it than me." 

"Ha-ha," Ash mocks. "But seriously, why are you here?"

"Why wouldn't I be here? It's a crime scene, isn't it?"

"Yeah but, you're the blood guy," he replies, tossing the thing he'd been staring at into the ever-growing mound on the other side of him. "There's no blood here."

Dean’s head spins. “What does that mean?”

"The body has been -- drained -- of blood," Ash responds, as if he didn’t just stop Dean’s world from spinning. “Weirdest thing you ever saw.”

No blood. Dean could hear that phrase echo in his head, louder and clearer each time. No blood in or on or near. No blood at all. No hot, sticky, sloppy blood. No splatter. No stain. Nothing. What an incredible idea. Why hadn’t I thought of that? he thinks, feeling as though he just found the missing piece to something he never knew was fragmented in the first place.

“How does he do it?” he asks. 

“Don’t know yet.” Ash shrugs his shoulders, his apathy towards this kind of genius ticking Dean off a little. “It’s too soon to tell. I'll let you know when I get the coroner’s report.”

“But this is the same guy that committed the other murders?” Dean asks, and he looks at Sam for the first time since they reached the dumpster. His gaze is inscrutable, but piercing. Dean feels like his brother can see right through him. 

“Officially, no,” Ash says, looking over at the lieutenant. “They’re uhh not related.”

Sam throw his hands up in exasperation. He’s saying something, but it’s just background noise. All Dean can hear is the beating of his heart in its calculable rhythm, pumping with the beat of No blood. No blood. No blood.

Ash leaves, but Dean is stuck standing there, still in awe, and from somewhere behind him he can hear his brother’s voice again. "Bled them dry," Sam scoffs. "The sick fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a looong time since I've posted anything on here. I missed this.
> 
> But here you go! This chapter is kind of short, but hopefully you like it. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long. I'm so sorry. I hope you like this chapter. Please leave comments!

If you're Dean, the guy who brings donuts, then there's no room for you to be anyone else. Dean's way of feigning normalcy; the niche he has carved out for himself. Who would ever suspect the bringer of baked goods of anything less than benevolent intentions?

It was an integral part of John’s code: act like everyone else. Get a girlfriend. Smile for pictures. Eat donuts and blend in. Dean did that well. He was a nearly perfect hologram. Above suspicion, beyond reproach. Even Sam was at least half fooled, half the time. 

So here he is. Dean the donut deliverer. Pastel pink box in his clutches, opening the lid of it like the mouth of a hungry beast. He dishes out donuts to the regular passersby, asks about families, about pets. He catches the secretary’s hand in the delicate jaws. It’s a cheesy trick, but she always gets a laugh out of it.

By the time Dean makes it to the second floor, each of the dozen donuts have been accounted for. He places the box in a nearby trash can while Sam looks on mournfully. 

“Hungry?” Dean asks, revealing a white paper pastry bag and dropping it on Sam’s desk. He takes a corner of the desk for himself and sits as he watches Sam’s greedy fingers open the bag.

"I'm always hungry," Sam says with a grin as he pulls out a cruller. He gives it an appreciative once-over and then it's gone in three bites. “So, get this, these kills are now ‘officially connected’ per Harvelle. About time she pulled her head out of her ass."

Dean attempts to look supportive, but “head-in-ass” is his ideal scenario when it comes to the Miami Metro Homicide Department. With a solve rate for murders at about twenty percent, it had always been great place for Dean. A great place to hone his craft. And then, after four years in vice, Sam got moved to the department. Baby brother with a big chip on his shoulder, ready to prove to the world that he’s more than John Winchester’s son. And that meant problems for Dean.

"Did she put you on the case?" he asks. Supportive.

Sam snorts. "Shit yeah she did. Only because Singer told her she kind of fucking had to. You should've seen her face! Oh, God, that was priceless. It’s been added to my spank bank." Sam puts a cream covered finger in his mouth and sucks the frosting off.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

Dean looks down at the discarded paper bag and wills his cheeks not to flush. “With difficulty,” he teases. He traces the letters on the bag with a finger before he looks back up. When he does, Sam is looking out into the room, thoughtful. Dean doesn’t know if he heard him or not, but he figures that now is a good time to leave. He starts to stand up, but Sam stops him with a hand on his knee. 

“So this no-blood thing,” Sam finally says, “it's kind of important, right?” He manages a stiff grin. “It means something.”

“You think so?” Dean asks. He tries not to focus on the hand still on his knee. He tries not to think of cream covered fingers. Spit covered.

“You do,” Sam replies. “You practically popped a chub this morning.” This time, Sam’s smile is real. 

“God, Sam. I did not ‘pop a chub.’” Dean runs a hand down his face. “It's just interesting, is all. Different. A small detail.”

"Well, yeah. But what does it mean?"

It meant a strange light-headedness. It meant an itch to learn more about this killer. It meant a satisfied snicker from his shadow self, who should’ve been quiet so soon after Brent Donovan. But that was all rather tough to explain to Sam. So he just says, "Who really knows?"

Dean can tell that Sam doesn’t accept his answer, but he doesn’t call him out on it either. He just leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Flashes those dimples that Dean has never been able to say no to. “Well maybe we can go get some food tonight,” Sam suggests to him. “I can bounce some ideas off of you. You get these hunches, you know.”

“Only sometimes.”

“Come on, Dean, you make me smarter.”

Dean rolls his eyes and stands up from the desk. “You are smart, Sam. You just lack confidence.”

“Do you want to go or not?”

Dean shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, of course.” As if there was a chance that he would say no.

"Jeeze, it's like pulling teeth with you.” Sam crumples the empty donut bag and throws it at Dean’s head. He misses, but smiles still. “Get to work. I'll see you tonight."

\---

Around lunchtime the story broke national. By the time Dean got to the bar that evening, it was all every news channel could talk about. Dean doesn’t have to watch, though. He lived it. He keeps living it, over and over and over again. The novelty of a bloodless body has yet to wear off.

Dean lets the crisp cold of the beer bottle seep into his fingertips as he waits for Sam. His brother is late, as usual, but Dean doesn’t mind. In fact, he rather Sam not come at all. He rather be on his boat somewhere, away from Sam’s questions and sorting through what he was feeling. Dean, _feeling_.

He startles when he hears a voice in his ear. "Hey, handsome, can I buy you a drink?”

Sam walks around to his other side and leans on the bar. He’s beaming from ear to ear, face flushed and chest heaving. “What happened?” Dean asks. “Did you run here?”

“No, I just drove really fast,” Sam replies. “And I was still late. I know, I know. But…” he says, waving a stack of manila folders in the air, as if that would mean anything to Dean. “Come on, bring your drink. Actually, get two more of what you have and I’ll meet you at the table.”

Dean collects two bottles of beer from the bartender and makes his way to the back corner booth where Sam was waiting for him. He’s sitting spread legged on the bench, his long limbs taking up all the space. He has papers laid across the whole tabletop, arms across the back of the seat, and in these little moments, Dean realizes how Sam makes everything seem impossibly small. Like no matter where he turns, there will always be some part of Sam there.

“Look at the tattoo!” Sam says and slides two pictures over to Dean before he can even sit down. “I thought it was the same guy, but they just look alike. And these two – look, do you see it? All the vics have a missing fucking doppelganger!”

Not missing, Dean thinks, examining the photo. Dead. Dean-induced dead. The guy is recreating his murders; getting some kind of macabre amusement out of ushering Dean’s demons out into the light of day. He wasn’t sure until Sam was, but now it’s clear that whoever this murderer is, he wants Dean’s attention. And he has definitely gotten it.

“It's something, Dean,” Sam continues. “I've been running around with my head up my ass and finally I got something! This morning, this super pale skinny ass blonde guy shows up dead. Watch, someone who looks exactly like him is going to be reported missing in a few days.” 

Dean takes a drink of his beer. He doesn’t know what to say to Sam to deter him from going down this road. It’s one thing for Dean to be a serial killer in the same city where his little brother is a homicide detective. It’s a totally different thing to be the serial killer that his brother is trying to catch.

“These aren't coincidences,” Sam says. “This is a pattern.”

“Why would someone kidnap two people who look alike, kill one and leave them to be found, and then stash the other away?”

Sam looks at his brother, bewildered. “Um, I don't know, because he's a fucking creep show? This is a serial killer that we're dealing with. He's not really in the right state of mind.”

“Sam, I don’t know…”

Sam slides all the photographs in a pile in front of him. He doesn’t look at Dean when he says, “I don't need your blessing to pursue this.”

They sit in an uncomfortable silence for a while, Sam obviously upset and discouraged, but Dean knows that he will forgive him this one thing. “What's got you so worked up, Sam?” he asks.

Sam sighs. “Everything. And fucking Harvelle. She calls me Einstein.”

“I don't get it.”

Sam picks at the label on his bottle. “As in, if my brain was as big as my biceps, I'd be a genius.”

"You are a genius.” Dean smirks. “So I guess that's saying a lot for your biceps."

He indulges Dean with a small smile. "I want to be taken seriously, you know. Not just because I'm 'John's kid.'"

“No one thinks you’re just John’s kid. No one but you.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that, just tells him that he’s going to go get them some nachos and then scoots out of his seat. Sam doesn’t come back after five minutes. After ten, Dean starts looking around for him. When he finds him, Sam is standing next to some guy, body inclined too close for Dean’s liking. The guy is cute, young, and dirty blonde. Inside of him, his cancerous Carroll creature is gnashing its teeth. 

Dean stands up before he even realizes what he’s doing, stalks over to the pair and places a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Hey, sorry, um this is AJ,” Sam tells him. “AJ, this is my brother, Dean.”

Dean tries to smile at the guy, but he feels his face contort into something more akin to a grimace. “Yeah, hi,” he manages between clenched teeth before he turns to Sam. “I got a call, so I’m going to head out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please feed the writer! Comments and criticisms always welcome!


End file.
